


my skin is covered in paper cuts.

by beckhams



Series: football. — ideas. [9]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, antoine centric, over use of the words pain want and hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckhams/pseuds/beckhams
Summary: champagne tastes bitter on losing tongues. you learn that quickly, you learn the pain and the hurting and so much hurting it almost splits you open, you can feel the pain digging into your skin and making you bleed.
Relationships: Olivier Giroud/Antoine Griezmann
Series: football. — ideas. [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733986
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	my skin is covered in paper cuts.

**Author's Note:**

> bro listen this was meant to just be antoine, no olivier but I couldn't help it 😔 lol anyways this isn't good. I just kept repeating the same phrases but whatever, I like it I guess but I don't like it at all ❤️
> 
> anyways enjoy xx

the sunny days are getting much colder than you remember them ever being, with glove covered hands and inchy scarves and numb cheeks. the sun is bright and the training pitch grass feels chilling against the bare skin of your legs when you lay down.

you didn't know spain could get this cold, and that's quite ignorant but you didn't know it could get this cold, you didn't know spain could possibly freeze you to death if it so wished.

real sociedad was supposed to be _it_ and maybe it is in a sense. maybe this is your peak but you've always been ambitious, you've always begged your father to let you have another go so you can beat your high score, you always wanted and wanted and wanted.

and that want will be the very thing that kills you. you will fill with it, the wanting makes you sick to the very core, and you still want even when it comes with pain of being turned down by nearly every club in france, you still _want_ and _hope_ that there will be time.

but, instead you go to spain, where the nights are hot and the days are hotter. where the food has flavour and the music is beautiful, and it's a culture shock at first because you can barely speak a word of spanish and when you finally do, it's heavily accented and hard to understand but you are _there_ you are in a real club that has opportunities and it almost makes you shake with the excitement of it all.

but you are so homesick that it makes your bones ache, or maybe that's just the training, because you've always been a bit on the fragile side. but you miss France, and the food and the buildings and your family, you miss them so much, it makes you ache. 

but you can't go home yet, the fear of disappointment built into you since the first time you were told ' _you're too small, antoine, I'm sorry, the club said no._ ' from your father and he had that sad frown but he always tried to make you feel better. 

and then you'd go the next club and they'd say the same thing again.

you want so badly, it will make you ache.

☆

you want to be remembered, in that selfish way, you want to be remembered. you don't want to be one of those people that slip between the gaps of history and go forgotten and maybe its vain of you to want to be remembered but you have always been egotistical. 

real sociedad was meant to be a chance. 

and it is, it's brings getting promoted and your first call up to the french team and your fingers are so frozen to the touch that when you go to shake someone's hand they mutter a ' _you've got such cold hands_ '. 

the french national team is pushing and pushing and pushing. it's hurting and wanting and so much wanting that it's ripping you up whole. 

france is getting coddled, babied, while also having an entire country on your back, with eyes watching you, waiting for you to crumple and show who you really are but you are so exhausted and tired and you still want, you still want it all, so you push through and carry all the weigh that you can and then some more. 

and when you finally fall through the gaps, when your wings are finally clipped, they don't want to watch. the fans turn a blind eye to you crumbling. 

and you want so badly. and the whole country wants so badly. 

your fingers are numb. 

☆

champagne tastes bitter on losing tongues. you learn that quickly, you learn the pain and the hurting and so much hurting it almost splits you open, you can feel the pain digging into your skin and making you bleed. 

the champagne is bitter, so bitter you don't finish your glass and instead switch to a drink you can't quite you can the name of. 

the taste stays on your tongue, or maybe it stays on his tongue, you can't quite remember, all you know is he tastes of bitterness, so bitter that you get addicted to the pain of it all. 

and you want that hurt. 

want want want. 

you want and it slides under your skin, the want, the need, and it hurts, it slices you open and you bleed in front of the adoring fans, in front of the fans who are cheering encouragement. 

and they want it for you, they want want want. they hurt, they bleed, they go through the pain and they watch you cry. 

they crown you their prince. 

le prince. le petite prince. 

the hurting prince. 

☆

history. so many minutes. and you beg, ask, hope that you will make it. 

and you are so greedy for it, for wanting so badly, and your hands are so cold, so freezing you hope they won't freeze off. and the squad is yelling, singing, wanting. 

want want want.

and you're so close, you can taste it. the cool metal. you can feel the tear in your heart, and you almost wonder what will happen if you lose? how will you go on knowing what could have been? 

and maybe you want to lose, to feel the pain and hurt you've grown so used to, to feel it all over again and let it cut your skin, let everything hurt you. 

but then you see the trophy, the wold cup, the most important trophy in the world. and you see your squad, your family, and you want it, you want to win. 

you can feel the metal already. 

☆

his mouth is hot and wet and you scramble to get a hold of him, want want want. and it's so warm in the car, you're pressed against the backseat with him looming over you, crushing you if he wanted to. 

"olivier." 

he hums. 

he tastes bitter. more bitter than you remember. 

your first place medal is tossed somewhere on the ground and you know you'll rip apart the car in the morning trying to find it but right now, you taste champagne and metal and _olivier_. 

and you want so badly it will rip you whole. this was supposed to be it, the world cup, la liga, it was supposed to make you _feel_ something. it wasn't supposed to make you want the pain. 

and you want want want. 

and he could choke you, kill you, if he wanted to and you almost want him to, you _want_ him to. but the fear of rejection curls around your throat instead and it might kill you, rejection. 

but it would hurt so good. 

you feel so sick and hurt and you can feel the pain sturring under your skin. and the rope of the medal is still stinging on your skin. 

and when he grips your hips too tight, and you know it will leave bruises and it hurts so badly that you almost tear up, you don't tell him to stop. 

he can't tell the difference between pain and pleasure and for you they blur together because really what is the difference. 

pain pain pain, pleasure pleasure pleasure. and then it all melts together and you hurt so good, and you feel like you're falling. 

this will be the very thing that kills you, your desire will take hold and you'll break in olivier's hands. and it's so gentle and merciful to die in a lover's hands. 

and you want want want. 

it will rip you whole.


End file.
